


Five Ways To Wake Dean Winchester (Without Getting Shot)

by emmbrancsxx0



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 13x06 Coda, Coda, Episode: s13e06 Tombstone, Fluff, M/M, and he probably just rolled his eyes, but he's a quick learner, i have the impression that cas has been shot before when he's tried to wake dean up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 11:14:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12793386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmbrancsxx0/pseuds/emmbrancsxx0
Summary: Sometimes, Dean’s dreams are violent.





	Five Ways To Wake Dean Winchester (Without Getting Shot)

**I.**

Sometimes, Dean’s dreams are violent. They make him thrash in his sleep, tangling the bed sheets around his limbs and pushing the comforter to the floor. His fingers twitch towards the gun hidden under his pillow.

Castiel can only guess he’s dreaming of a hunt—though he never knows if it’s a fabrication or a memory. He can almost picture it: a nondescript graveyard with drooping willows and time-faded etchings on the stones; a damp back-alley of an urban metropolis, painted a variety of colors by the neon lights, and the silvery sphere of the low-hanging moon above. A spirit with its hands around Dean’s neck as he fumbles with his Zippo to throw onto the bones; a werewolf sniffing the air for his scent.

Dean moves like he’s hunting. He gasps as if he’s taken a blow to the gut. He kicks out like he’s running, and more often than not it causes black and blues to bloom on Castiel’s skin. He’s all jutting elbows and right hooks. A long time ago, Castiel gave up on flailing to hold down his legs and capture his arms accompanied by growls of _Dean, Dean, wake up, it’s me!_

He’s learned to avoid or endure the injuries until Dean rolls onto his stomach, when the bottom sheet has snapped off the corners of the mattress and the pillows have landed beneath the bed. Castiel will wrap his palm across the back of Dean’s neck, right beneath the short hairs, where a knot of stiff muscles from stress and a lifetime behind the wheel tighten under his skin. He’ll give a feather-light squeeze at first, before massaging circles with his thumb into the base of Dean’s skull, feeling the soft tissue loosen and pop under his touch. He’ll trace his hand downwards and knead the heel of his palm between Dean’s shoulder blades.

Dean will hum as his lashes flutter, battling against heavy eyelids; but he’ll quickly give in. He’ll nuzzle his cheek into the mattress and shift under Castiel’s hands, rolling his shoulders to meet the touch.

He might smile sleepily and mumble, “‘Mornin’.” But usually, the grin will prelude something to the effect of, “Got somethin’ else you can rub, Cas.”

Sometimes, Castiel will oblige him.

**II.**

Sometimes, Dean’s dreams make him tremble. He’ll curl in on himself, making himself as small as possible, a defense mechanism of all the warm-blooded mammals hidden beneath the earth. He clutches at the sheets, but can never seem to hang on tight enough. He shivers, spine rattling and jaw moving in silent words. He sniffs and chokes out sobs that echo in the hollow of Castiel’s chest. His lashes will line with spotted tears, wetting his cheeks so they shimmer in the moonbeams streaming in from the window high above the wall of his room.

He’ll whisper a plea in the form of a name. Sometimes they vary, but mostly they’re the same names. _Sammy. Dad. Mom. Bobby._

_Cas._

Castiel cannot bear the thought of causing Dean any more pain. Something inside of him wishes he could touch his fingertips to Dean’s forehead and take away his pain, wishes it were that simple. But he can feel Dean’s sorrow inside of himself, knows that it is bone deep and weary.

He’ll kiss Dean’s cheeks, his temples, his hairline, the corners of his lips. He’ll hold Dean’s face between his hands and whisper to him in English, Enochian, Latin, and every language that might come close to expressing his love. They all fall short.

Dean will blink awake, bleary-eyed and with hitching breaths, and fold into Castiel, holding onto him like he may slip away, until he’s calmed himself and pushed the heavy weight of his burden down deep again. Castiel hopes he provides some semblance of comfort as he strokes the tips of his fingers up and down Dean’s arm.

Dean never tells him what these dreams are about.

Sometimes, Castiel already knows.

**III.**

Sometimes, Dean doesn’t dream at all. It’s a deep, heavy sleep that sweeps over him the moment he hits the pillow. This usually happens after a particularly long and grueling day. Castiel would say it’s how the dead might sleep, if not for all the snoring that makes him want to shake Dean awake. (But he’s learned his lesson, and now he’ll only sigh and try to tune out the snores.)

Dean may appear peaceful in this state, but the tranquility is only a guise. Like a possum playing dead, this is when Dean is the most dangerous. Inside, he’s coiled for attack, and his reflexes snap as quickly as a snake catching its prey. Every sense is heightened and poised.

The only way, Castiel has found, to wake Dean up when he’s like this is to put the fire inside of him to better use. To redirect the energy of Dean’s frayed nerves into something else.

He’ll bury his nose into the crook of Dean’s neck and suck red marks into the tender pull of skin there. He’ll drag kisses from the base of Dean’s jaw to his chin and scrape his teeth on his adam’s apple, until Dean’s arms reach around him and pull Castiel on top of him, draping Castiel’s body over him.

And then it’s all rough hands in tangled hair and on hot skin. It’s _Dean Dean Dean_ and _Cas Cas Cas_. And the sounds Dean makes are a lot more pleasant on the ears than snores.

Sometimes, Dean makes pancakes for breakfast afterward; and Castiel eats them even though he doesn’t need to.

**IV.**

Sometimes, Dean shouts in his sleep. Pinpricks of sweat dampen his hairline and dry chilled onto his flesh, but Castiel thinks he’s dreaming of flames. He’ll squeeze his eyes tight as they flicker wildly behind his lids in the throes of the nightmare. His body will freeze, going as tight and rigid as rigor mortis. Or he’ll toss and turn, squirming away from the imaginary razors and prods driven into him. He’ll hiss in a breath whenever the blade hits its mark.

Castiel saved him from damnation once, but he cannot save Dean from his own mind—though, he tries. He’ll press his chest to Dean’s spine, and touch his forehead to the space between Dean’s shoulder blades. He’ll hold him close, as he did when he first dragged him from the Pit. He’ll place his hand on Dean’s shoulder, aligning it to the scar that was once there—is _still_ there, completely faded from the skin but marked everlasting onto his soul.

Castiel doesn’t know why Dean awakens at that, but he does. His breath is quick and heavy at first as he reorients himself to his surroundings, as he realizes where he is. Home.

“Cas?” he grates out, his voice just above a whisper. And Castiel remembers how young Dean is.

“I’m here, Dean.”

Dean breathes in, holds it in his lungs, and breathes out. He places his hand on top of Castiel’s and keeps it there. He does not fall back asleep, his disquiet thoughts spinning in his mind; nor does he speak about the dream.

Castiel wants to tell him that he is safe, that he is loved, that he is forgiven. He wants to say that, if he had a soul, it would be blacker than Dean’s. He does not. He can never find the words that would make Dean understand. Instead, he ekes out, “ _Dean_ ,” and hopes the message gets through.

Sometimes, he thinks it does.

**V.**

Sometimes, rarely, Dean has good dreams. He’ll sigh happily in his sleep, his chest rising and falling with the steady, fragile breaths that keep him alive. The corners of his lips will tug up into a contented smile, and it’s not uncommon for a laugh to rumble and hum out of his throat.

These dreams are marked more by what’s not there than what is. No scrunched brow or tightened jaw, no sharp movements or aborted cries. Dean is relaxed, unguarded, laid bare.

Castiel hates to wake Dean up from these dreams, so he doesn’t. He’ll watch the lines and cures of Dean’s face, smooth and serene, until the morning light coming through the window sweeps away the shadows. He imagines Dean in the dream, pulling from his own memories of the welcomed lulls in world-ending events where they managed to steal of sliver of joy. He sees laughter lines creasing around twinkling eyes; and throughout all the millennia, Castiel never knew that happiness could feel so big in his chest, could ache so much it almost feels like sadness.

In the early hours of the morning, when the sun’s light is still pink and orange against the sky, Castiel will press his human body against Dean’s. He’ll rest his head on Dean’s chest and listen to the strong beat of his heart. He will not think about how it will one day run out. He will close his eyes and listen harder, going deeper to hear the thrumming of Dean’s soul—beaten and battered and dragged through fire, but vibrant and resilient. Castiel tries to pinpoint all that its sound reminds him of—so like the whispering howl of the rings of Saturn, or the muffled silence of snowfall, or the triumphant bass of a rock and roll song thumping out of the speakers of a classic car gunning down the highway. And Castiel lets him rest, lets the tension ease from Dean’s body, lets him know peace, lets him dream.

Sometimes, Castiel allows himself to believe he’s the subject of these dreams.


End file.
